American Psychette
by HpVamp
Summary: "I can see clouds lifting from my vision...and I think, why not end up with her?" - Patrick Bateman meets his equal.  Written in stream of conciousness, much like the book. Not for the squeamish.
1. Chapter 1

**Girl**

When I step out of the cab and onto the salty pavement in front of Pearce and Pearce, my headphones sputtering out the sounds of the newest Bon Jovi record, _Slippery When Wet, _I am annoyed to find that I am sweating, and that it has already permeated my starched Gucci shirt. It is embarrassing and incredible that even on the coldest of days in New York City, my psychosis has managed to shine through, at least as far as my underarms were concerned, and I feel my heart race as I witness a bum hold out his corroded hand to me and ask for change. He is old, feeble, and utterly disgusting, the filth of Western Civilization, and I know that one flick of my knife would end his pointless existence, and with his begging, his audacity to ask me, Patrick Bateman, for change, he is also begging to be massacred and left to die on the cold and unforgiving sidewalk.

I reach inside my Salvatore Ferragamo trench coat and finger the handle of a serrated knife, praying to the God that I don't believe in that the bum doesn't touch me. There was no possible way to avoid causing a commotion while killing this man in the middle of the day, and although the thought of being strapped into an electric chair fills me with a warm and ingratiating feeling, the thought of prison appeals to me much less. The bum, however, does not touch me, and a weight is lifted from my tanned and well-toned shoulders.

I wait at the elevator doors, and Jon Bon Jovi is wailing over booming electric guitars the lyrics to "Dead or Alive". I have been standing there in a trance for some time, fantasizing about the little brunette hardbody whose face I decimated with a baseball bat only the night before, when I realize I have not yet pressed the "Up" button. This is remedied when a long and slender finger, ended with long red nails, sinks into the white plastic of the console. I look over and spy a very beautiful, albeit strange, blonde hardbody. She is wearing a black Chanel pants suit, one which has been tailored to fit her curves, a white Valentino button-up and red tie, and red Dior heels. She wears thick rimmed Oliver Peoples glasses, and carries a black briefcase that I recognize as Jean Paul Gaultier, because I almost bought it at Neiman Marcus last week. Her well hi-lighted blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun, and her tunnel bangs hang just over her eyebrows. I realize, half with envy and half with admiration, that her strange fashion choice is unfashionably fashionable.

I wonder to myself what she is doing at this building, what business she could possibly have at this respected establishment. She is, after all, a woman, and as any self-respecting man knows, women do not belong at corporate offices. She could have been a secretary, but something told me she had already far surpassed the duties of a secretary. She finally turns to me and notices that I am staring, and there is a pause as she takes me in, then gives me a faint half-smile, which I begrudgingly return.

The elevator arrives and we both step in, and Jon Bon Jovi has moved on to "You Give Love a Bad Name." I press the button labeled 50, the highest and most distinguished floor, looking over to see if she has noticed. Her eyes dart towards it for only a moment, then back towards the elevator doors, which have not yet closed. She says nothing. I laugh to myself as I turn the impossibility of a woman who is not a secretary working on the 50th floor over in my head. I remove one side of my headphones, give her a dazzling and charming smile, then ask her, "What floor?" I hold the "Door Open" button so I will not have to press her button after the doors have shut.

She looks over at me and raises her eyebrows, smiling and revealing her own brilliantly white teeth. "The very same," she says, and I can tell that saying this gives her great pleasure. I imagine the sound her skull would make after a nail has entered the back of it.

I take my finger off of the "Door Open" button, and the great golden doors begin to close. Although I am still pretending to listen to my Walkman, I have muted the record in order to hear her breathing. Her perfect breasts heave up and down, greeting me through the button-up, and I wonder to myself if they are fake. She expels a long sigh, and I am totally taken aback when she speaks to me, her voice echoing in the marble elevator cab.

"I have always found gold and marble to be quite tacky together," she says in an indifferent tone, and I realize for the first time she has a bit of a Southern twang. I do not answer for a moment, wondering if I should pretend to have not heard her, or how she could possibly know that I have muted my record. When she looks over and sees me staring, I realize I have no choice but to answer her.

I clear my throat nervously. "I have to say that I disagree," I say with as much charm as I can muster. "I find gold and marble to be the epitome of taste and class, which are, after all, the essence of the American Dream." This is a lie, but there is a slight chance that she will report my insolence to the CEO of Pearce and Pearce, if that is indeed what she is here for. Spying, I mean.

She gives me a slight laugh and takes in my boy next door good looks, and I can tell that I have made a mistake in my previous statement. "You really feel that strongly about it?"

I open my mouth to answer her, but before I can, the cab stops at the 25th floor, and the golden doors open once again. A furious looking Timothy Bryce stands waiting on the other side, and he regards me quickly before stepping onto the elevator. I feel a twinge of jealousy when I realize that he is holding a cellular phone to his ear, and is having a difficult time with whomever might be on the other end. Bryce is wearing a gray Armani suit with a matching tie, a Dolce and Gabbana shirt, and black Hugo Boss dress shoes. He is carrying a custom made briefcase by Louis Vuitton. The hardbody takes a compact from her inside her jacket and studies her reflection.

"Look, I told you before Fischer, I'm simply booked for the rest of the week," he says irritatedly into the phone. "Perhaps we can do it next week...uh huh...listen, you're breaking up...I think it's the elevator, these things don't get very good reception on...what the fuck did you say to me?"

"He says you're a woman-stealing son of a bitch, and he'd like to throw you down the fucking elevator shaft, then stare down at your mutilated corpse and perhaps take a crowbar to your face. Or, at least, that's what I would like to do."

Bryce turns to me for a moment, not really looking at me and says, "I'm sorry Bateman, did you say something?" His eyes go dark again as he screams into the phone, "No you stupid asshole, not you!" He turns back to me quizzically.

I shrug. "I was asking if you wanted to go to Barcadia tonight, then added that that was what I would like to do."

He makes a face at me and begins to shake his head. "Batemen, I don't know what your erection with that place is all about, but honestly, no one goes there anymore," his focus turns back to his phone conversation. "No, if I thought you were even capable of getting an erection, I wouldn't even be speaking with you, you faggot!"

I laugh to myself as I have averted disaster once again. I hum to the now non-existent Bon Jovi tape, then realize with some discomfort that the blonde is staring at me. I look over at her from behind Bryce, and she looks at me over the top of her compact. She is smiling broadly. A small, yet unnoticeable shiver runs through me as I realize how loudly I explained to Bryce what I wanted to do to him. I avert my eyes from her steely gaze, which seems to be staring holes in my exterior. When the elevator doors open, I push in front of Bryce quickly and start down the hallway towards my office.

It is 8:50 AM. I am thinking of Jon Bon Jovi, I am thinking of the stair master, I am thinking of Evelyn and Bryce, I am thinking of the blonde hardbody on the elevator...


	2. Chapter 2

**Board Meeting**

When I get to my office, Jean stares up at me from behind her desk, a look of stupidity characteristically spread across her face. She holds her appointment book for me in her left hand, and opens it quickly with her unkempt fingers. I shudder in disgust at her appearance, her label-less suit, her unfashionable hair cut, her pale and sallow-looking skin, and give her a look which accurately expresses my disgust, which she shrinks at almost immediately. I sigh and roll my eyes at her supreme lack of confidence, then say, "Tell me quickly Jean, I'm in no mood for a lengthy briefing this morning."

She nods quickly and follows me into my office, standing in the doorway while I remove my trench coat and hang it on a velvet hanger, placing it in the closet on my left. "Detective Donald Kimball called, he wants to know if you could have lunch with him again on the 18th," she pauses and looks up at me for any change in expression, which I do not provide for her, and she clears her throat. "So what should I say?" Her last words are almost suspicious, and I feel my flesh crawl at them.

I look at her as one would look at a small retarded child, and turn my head, raising my eyebrows. "Well, Jean, is my schedule open?"

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other nervously. "Well, yeah, but...you told me to say no when people have to go through me to ask you for lunch dates."

I sit down at my desk and fold my hands under my chin and sigh. "I never said that Jean. I hate it when you put words in my mouth. It's extremely unbecoming." I know this is a lie, but I feel as if I cannot make an exception to my own rule for Donald Kimball. Jean has suspected something since he came stumbling in here three months ago, and to refuse an invitation from him now would only heighten her suspicion. I could just kill her, sure, but Jean is the only person in my life who I have even come close to liking. I open my desk drawer and take out my own planner, open it to the 18th, and pencil the Detective's godforsaken name in. I slam my planner shut, which makes Jean jump, and I say, "Is there anything else, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me?"

She swallows. "There's been a board meeting called at 10. I'm not sure what it's about, but your presence has been requested." There is a pause as we stare at each other again, and she realizes the mistake she has made when she sees the enraged look on my face. "That's all," she says quickly, then turns to leave, closing the door behind her.

When 10 am rolls around, I am sitting in the board room, staring apathetically out the window. Bryce and Van Patten sit across from me, arguing about Mikhail Gorbachev and the possible end of the Cold War. I drift in and out of the conversation, nodding and shaking my head when the time is right.

"Surely you can't think that Gorbachev would dare disturb the peace now. I mean, Christ Van Patten, the Wall is down, and sooner or later, the Iron Curtain will have to come down too. It's not in his personality to start a full-fledged nuclear war now. I mean, we may have had that problem with Kruschev, but Gorbachev? Please, the man has a massive red birth mark on his head which he wears like a hat."

"Please Bryce, like a fucking birth mark really gives any insight into the man's personality. Mark my words, by the end of the 90s, we'll all be melted to the ground and huffing nuclear fallout for the rest of our pathetic lives." Van Patten looks at me with his dazzling smile, which I notice with glee is considerably less-dazzling than mine, and I laugh and nod in agreement. Even now, I am not completely sure as to what I agreed to, and as I search the faces of my two peers, I feel as if I don't really care.

A door shuts and the man that I know as John Pearce, the owner of the Pearce and Pearce corporation, comes strutting in, wringing his hands and smiling healthily, but slyly, as if he has a secret to tell. Pearce is wearing a brown Roberto Cavalli suit and matching tie, an Armani button-up and golden cufflinks from Tiffany's which bear his initials. His shoes are alligator skin and vintage, and probably cost him upwards of $1000. I feel a twinge of envy as I feel that his outfit was probably more expensive than mine, but relief washes over me when I witness his salt and pepper hair and realize he is much older than me, and that my body is in much better shape than his. This is only the third time I have seen Pearce in the office, and wonder why he has descended from on high to mingle with what he must see as the common folk, his underlings. Immediately, the room goes silent, and everyone is straightening up in their seats, watching Pearce with hungry eyes - someone is about to get a promotion. I remember Van Patten gossiping wildly about the upper management opening previously occupied by the now deceased Paul Allen, how it would most likely be filled internally, and my heart begins to race.

A moment later and the door opens again, and this time I see the blonde hardbody from the elevator step in, and stand silently in the corner. She is so quiet that no one else notices her, although it is hard to see her with Pearce's fat ass in the way. I find my eyes have been drawn to her commanding presence, her spine which is straight as a board, her delicate hands which are dangling at her sides. Her face is unreadable, seems apathetic, and uninterested in the present activities in the board room. I wonder again what she is doing here, why Pearce is allowing her to stay in the company of so many powerful executives. My eyes are ripped back to him as he finally opens his fat mouth to speak.

"As most of you know, the disappearance of Paul Allen has left a gaping hole in our presidential position at Pearce and Pearce. Allen's disappearance, while tragic, is not something we can afford to wait for," he pauses and looks around, and I get the strange feeling that Pearce does not feel that Allen's disappearance is a tragedy at all, but rather an annoyance. "If and when Allen is found, his position and this company will be waiting for him with open arms - " (I laugh at this, because Allen's jaw has been detached from his face and is sitting idly like a trophy in my sock drawer, and the rest of his body has probably finished decomposing in a bath tub in Hell's Kitchen) " - but until that time, his position must be filled." He gazes around the room again for dramatic effect, waiting perhaps for the tension to overwhelm Luis Carruthers so much he passes out. He turns slightly to the hardbody in the corner, and I feel my heart begin to sink. There is no possible way this is happening.

"That being said," he utters as the woman steps forward, "I want you all to know that despite your devotion and hard work, the position has not been filled internally, but rather from an outside source." My head turns slowly towards Bryce and Van Patten, whose mouths are stupidly agape and whose eyes are narrowed at the woman, who has now stepped to Pearce's right. Pearce continues. "As you know, Pearce and Pearce has always been dedicated to trailblazing, which is why I would like for you all to welcome our new President, Evangeline Stone." He gestures to the woman from the elevator, now identified as Evangeline, and smirks at the ridiculous looks on the faces of the men in the board room. I feel a hollow feeling at the pit of my stomach, which is now turning somersaults inside of me. My hands shake as I lift them to applaud, which I do to keep myself from strangling her.

Evangeline smiles tightly and steps to the table, her eyes scanning each and every face in the room. She holds her hands up to stop the applause, nodding at it approvingly with her eyes closed, and I can tell that she enjoys the limelight. Van Patten leans over to Bryce and mumbles something about how many people she must have blown to get here, and Bryce nods in agreement. Her steely blue-gray eyes snap open and she glares at them, although I am sure there is no possible way she could have heard them over the applause, and when the room is silent there is an uncomfortable pause which is filled by her cold hard stare. Both Bryce and Van Patten have avoided gaze and are staring down at the table when she opens her mouth to speak, a smile gracing her well-developed pink lips.

"I must say that I am elated to become the first female president at Pearce and Pearce," she says this with a certain amount of venom in her voice, still staring Van Patten and Bryce down, "and that I look forward to becoming part of the family. I hope that all of you can accept me as your supervisor and, most importantly, your friend." She flashes her beautiful set of straight white teeth, then adds, "Really, it truly is an honor." John Pearce smiles at her and lays a hand on her shoulder, which she moves steadily away from, a slightly irritated look on her face, which she covers up almost immediately with another brilliant smile. She swallows and for a moment a see a look in her eyes which I recognize, but the moment is fleeting, and my hatred for her is restored.

When the board meeting is over, there is a small and impromptu reception in which the associates in the room will meet Evangeline and either try to kiss her ass or have sex with her. I hang back for a moment and watch as Bryce and Van Patten walk the line between both of these options, their subtle, underlying anger at her going relatively unnoticed. I notice that while she is engaging in conversation with both of them, she is neither listening nor looking at either one of them - it is a trick I myself have mastered. After a while, I make my way over to where Evangeline is standing, and am enraged when Chaz Dyson, who is something like my supervisor, pushes in front of me. He turns around and looks me in the eye, and he scrunches his face up, as if he is trying to remember who I am, and finally says, "Sorry about that, Halberstram! My fault!" He spins around and I cringe at the face that I have once again been confused for Marcus Halberstram.

Dyson extends his manicured hand to Evangeline, and is taken aback when she adjusts her hand to get a better grip on his. "Please," she says as he eyes her slender fingers, "don't be afraid to shake my hand like a man. I assure you I won't break." He laughs awkwardly, then says, "I'm sorry about that, Evangeline, I didn't mean to offend. I'm Dyson. Chaz Dyson."

Her eyes blaze for a moment, and she drops her hand from his suddenly. "Perhaps you didn't mean to offend, but you certainly have. You won't be calling me Evangeline here, Mr. Dyson, you will be calling me Miss Stone. Is that understood?"

He shrinks away a little, and I can tell that he has never been spoken to like that by a woman in his life. Van Patten and Bryce eye her suspiciously, then go back to whatever it was they were arguing about. Dyson clears his throat uneasily, then gestures to me in order to quickly change the subject. "Miss Stone, have you met Marcus Halberstram yet?" I look up and step to his side, my hand extended. "He's a fantastic employee, handling the Fischer account, which, as you know, is quite important."

My large hand engulfs hers and I feel the softness of her skin in mine. She shakes my hand slowly, her eyes narrowed. "You're not Marcus Halberstram," she says, her hand now dropping to her side. She gestures toward the real Halberstram, who is sipping coffee in the corner, and smiles with one side of her mouth. "That's Marcus Halberstram. And while I see the resemblance and notice almost immediately that you are both wearing Oliver Peoples glasses, I must say," she leans in and whispers seductively in my ear, "you have a slightly better haircut." She pulls backwards and for a moment, I'm not completely sure what to say. She looks at Dyson and says, not unkindly, "You should really keep better track of your employees." Her gaze shifts to me once again, and she continues. "You were on the elevator with me this morning, weren't you? The one who thought it represented the...what did you say? The 'essence of the American Dream'?"

I nod, genuinely impressed that she remembers the happenings of the past few hours, and that she can distinguish between Halberstram and I. "I'm Patrick Bateman, by the way. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stone."

She lets out a laugh and throws up her hands. "Finally, some respect." She smiles. "I knew just by looking at you this morning that we spoke the same language. So tell me about yourself Bateman. Where did you go to school?"

I give her a charming smile and step in closer to her, letting her believe that I am interested. This bitch needed to die, and I from what I could see, her seduction wouldn't be hard. "Harvard Business School. I grew up in upstate New York, so it was only natural that I attend Harvard. I graduated magna cum laude, valedictorian of my class." I clear my throat and realize she is once again listening to me, but not really listening. "It was at Harvard that I committed my first murder, in which I decapitated a hooker and dumped her body in a river. Since that time, I've had my way with many a whore, most of the time with nail guns or hammers. Is that the answer you were looking for, Miss Stone?" Evangeline has been nodding in agreement this whole time, but I am sure she has been staring just over my shoulder. Bryce taps her and she turns around, and he says something about having lunch, which she smiles at and agrees to. Her face tells me that the lunch will most likely never happen.

I am about to lose interest when she speaks to me again. "That is all terribly interesting Patrick, because you see, I also went to Harvard Business School. I came from New Orleans, however, so it was quite unnatural for me to attend Harvard, and even I couldn't believe that I graduated as a valedictorian." She pauses. "What is also incredibly interesting is the fact that I myself have murdered my share of hookers, although these were male and preferred to be called 'escorts'," she places air quotations around the word "escorts", "although I'm sure that's what they all prefer to be called. Though it doesn't really matter when they're drowning in a pool of their own blood, does it?" She shrugs her shoulders. Throughout her speech her voice has remained calm and apathetic, and her gaze has not left mine. I open my mouth to speak, but find that there are no words for what I have to say. She smiles and pats me on the shoulder, then leans in to me once again. "It seems you've made a career out of saying things you're sure that people won't hear. But I heard you, Patrick. I heard you loud and clear." Her arm slides down as she moves in even closer to my ear. "From now on, why don't you start calling me Evangeline?" She pulls back and raises her eyebrows at me, then exits the board room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Phone Call**

I am scooping out what is left of the contents of a grapefruit when Jean's voice rings fuzzily over the speaker on my desk. "Patrick, I have a call for you on line one. Would you like to take it or shall I tell her you're still at lunch?"

My hand jets out towards the _Talk _button so I may scold Jean for her stupidity, but it curls backwards for a moment when I realize Jean has chosen the adverb, "her." I set my hand down and stare at the speaker, as if waiting for it to tell me what to do. Every woman I have encountered who would possibly think of calling me is dead, save Evelyn, who stopped calling a month after our outrageous breakup at Tavern on the Green. Jean's voice is coming from the speaker again, asking if I am there and if I am alright. My hand slowly finds its way to the _Talk _button once again. I swallow and ask, "Who is her, Jean?"

There is only a split second delay before she answers, "Miss Stone."

I expel a quick burst of air, staring warily at the speaker. I hadn't seen or spoken to Stone since last week, and our encounter was a mystery to me, the way she seemed to know me, to know my thoughts. Last night, I thought about picking up another hooker to murder, and in fact came close to doing so, but thought of Evangeline's watchful eyes, and could not, my blood lust dissipating inside of me as quickly as it had risen. My hand once again presses the _Talk _button, but it is a moment or two before I speak. When I finally do, I say something like, "Yes Jean, you simpleton, I'll take the call."

Before long there is a flashing red light next to the _Line 1_ button on the ergonomic phone on my desk. I reach down slowly, then snatch it up quickly and press it to my ear before I lose my nerve. "Patrick Bateman," I say with gusto, shuffling papers and rattling pencils so it will seem as though I am busy. I cannot even hear her breathing on the other side of the line, and for some reason, this fact unnerves me.

"Bateman, hi!" She says, cheerily but not as though she is terribly excited to have reached me. "I hope I haven't called at a bad time. Are you busy at the moment?"

I contemplate telling her that she has interrupted a very important conference call, but then decide against it, for what reason I am not sure. "No, no," I say, accommodating as ever, "whatever you need to discuss with me is priority."

"Glad to hear it," she says, and I can tell she is smiling. "Anyway, I was wondering if perhaps you might pay me a visit sometime in the next hour if you're not busy. You see, I just got a call from a uh," There is a pause as she shuffles papers on her own desk, then picks one up, "a Detective Donald Kimball...?"

The name chills me down to my very core, and the silence she manages as she listens to my now quickened breath is truly stifling. I can hear the definite patter of a business card as she sets it down on her desk, and I imagine her eyeing it with her cold steely gaze, an eyebrow raised as she awaits my answer. When I say nothing, she continues. "Anyway, this Detective Kimball, he wanted to speak with me about the disappearance of Paul Allen. As if I knew anything about Paul, let alone where he's gotten off to..." her voice trails off, and I can hear her thinking, "...I understand that it must look suspicious, me conveniently showing up after he's gone totally AWOL, but that's certainly no reason to suspect me of anything."

If I hadn't had everything to do with Allen's disappearance, this conversation would be boring me. But something in her voice, a ping, a suspicion of some kind, makes me think that she knows something, and I feel paranoia slip slowly into my soul. I can hear her once again waiting for my answer, but I feel as if I cannot say anything.

"Anyway," she says for the third time, this time with a, for some reason, stunning inflection, "Kimball told me that you two have had lunch a few times. That you were more or less cooperating with him and helping him with this investigation. Is that true?"

I swallow again, unsure of how to answer her question, as I am not sure of the nature of it. Finally, I say, "We couldn't have met more than twice."

She chuckles a little, and the high-pitched coldness of it sends another wind through my insides. "Don't sound so damned guilty Bateman, it was steaks and cocktails, nothing serious." She laughs again, and I am sweating, almost positive that she know something, even though there is no way she possibly could. "Bottom line, Bateman, is that Allen's body was recently found in a bathtub in Hell's Kitchen. Or, what was left of it anyway. Totally decomposed, just a skeleton. Only took a week before they got a hold of his dental records and ID'd him, only - and listen to this, because this is the real kicker - there wasn't a mandible to ID with. Someone had removed it. They could only use his top rows of teeth." She sounds entirely too excited about this for a normal woman, and for a second, despite my paranoia and frightened demeanor, I hear something in her voice that I recognize, but it is fleeting. "I guess they found suit fibers or something, a few pieces of hair, real amateur stuff."

I feel a bit indignant at her criticism of my disposal, but I don't dare let on. I clear my throat, which feels dry and tight. "I'm sorry, Miss Stone," I say apologetically, "but I don't see what any of this has to do with me."

She sighs, clearly annoyed with the fact that I haven't caught on, although unless she is blackmailing me, I don't see what she could want. "Well Patrick," she says somewhat condescendingly, "this case is now officially a homicide. The police are suspecting someone within Pearce and Pearce, so the company is getting a lawyer. I myself am getting my _own _lawyer. What I'm saying is that talking to Detective Kimball without a lawyer is now strictly off limits. A BIG no-no. You need to set up an appointment with me, then come down here and speak to the company lawyer as soon as possible." Another pause. "You should follow my example and get your own lawyer as well."

Her last statement brings a drop of sweat from my forehead to my jaw line. All doubts that Stone knows something are completely gone. My hand is now shaking, and the fountain pen that I am gripping has exploded and stained my palm blue, but I hardly notice. "...well," I say, blinking furiously as my eyes begin to water, "I'll be sure to come down there uh...right away."

"Thank you very much, Patrick," she says, her voice unwavering, business-like, but kind, gentle.

Dial tone.

It is 2:00 pm. I am thinking of Paul Allen's jaw bone, I am thinking of leaving town, I am thinking of Evangeline Stone...


	4. Chapter 4

**Same**

It is 5:00pm and I am exiting the elevators of Pearce and Pearce, my pace and breath quickening, my blood lust once again finding the only weakness in my body and exploiting it. My hand grips my briefcase as tightly as the twine I will use to execute someone tonight, my leather Lanvin gloves making an unpleasant squeaking noise that only aggravates me further. A piece of my perfectly gelled hair has come loose and dangles before my left eye, swinging back and forth like a pendulum, or a hanging dead man. I am sweating. I need something, someone, to feel their pain and watch the terror on their face as they realize that I am God, that I am the Angel of Death come to take their hateful, pathetic life.

And then I see her. Her hair parted to the side, flipped over and teased very fashionably - it is not like the model's I murdered last night at Dorscea, done with so much cheap Suave that it contributes to the supposed hole in the O-Zone layer - but to the perfect amount. Her cream poet's shirt is one that I recognize as Michael Kors, and it is tucked into a brown Valentino pencil skirt. She wears sheer panty hose, which I fantasize about strangling her with, and are tucked into her brown Gucci pumps. She is the perfect specimen in every way, and as she slides her long slender arm into her JCrew trench, I breathe a sigh of relief - my blood lust will most definitely be satisfied tonight.

"Miss Stone," I call to her, plastering an artificial grin on my face, and she slowly turns around, her icy eyes finding mine, sending a chill through my own icy soul. Her pink lips curl upwards, and I notice with some resentment that her smile is almost one of ridicule. Her hands, like porcelain white doves, perch themselves on her curvaceous hips, and for a moment I feel small, insignificant, inferior in her presence. "Hello Patrick," she says as I close the gap between us, "I realize our last meeting probably left a lot to be desired in the way of getting-to-know-you's, but I thought I asked you to call me Evangeline." She reaches in her pockets and produces a pair of brown leather gloves and slides them onto her delicate hands, and turns to walk towards the doors as if she cannot be bothered by what I have to say. "I mean, honestly," she continues, not looking at me, "I know that I am your superior, but I do want to be considered a friend." I can tell that telling me she is my superior gives her great pleasure, and my grip again tightens on my briefcase.

"Well, if what you say is true, I was wondering, and please, tell me if I am out of line," as the door opens to the street, I hear salt crunching beneath my Prada loafers, and am reminded vaguely of a skull cracking, "if you would like to accompany me to dinner this evening. It is, after all, Friday night, and in a rare turn of events, I have not made any plans."

Stone does not stop, nor does she look at me as she says, "Is that so?" Her graceful arm arcs upwards as she hails a cab, "That's quite interesting, Patrick, just this morning I heard that you were planning a supper with Bryce and Van Patten." Her tone is icy as always, and my spine straightens as I realize that it is hinted with suspicion. Her eyes finally meet mine, and I see the perfect blue, almost white fire within them, the intense serenity they hold, and I am reminded of my very first murder at Harvard, the way I felt when I could finally satisfy the long suppressed blood lust I had harbored since childhood, and several seconds pass by before I realize that I haven't said anything. She smiles again and says, "But no matter. It just so happens that John Pearce canceled our dinner plans at the Quilted Giraffe this evening," I wince at the fact that not only was Stone having dinner with Pearce, but that she was having it at the Quilted Giraffe, "so, you're in luck. I canceled the reservations this afternoon, but I'm sure I won't have any trouble remaking them. I'm a regular there, you see." I wasn't aware that it was possible to hate a woman as much as I hated her.

I force a smile once again and smooth back the wayward hair from my face, "Fine then. May we have pre-dinner cocktails at my apartment? Say, 7:30?"

Her eyes meet mine again and instead of an iciness, I feel warmth spreading over me, even in the cool New York wind, and we stare at each other for what seems like hours. "Fine," she says finally, "you mind hailing a lady a cab?" Her question has broken me from my trance, and I nod, the warm feeling subsiding, my well-toned arm sliding upwards in the biting Winter wind, and immediately a taxi pulls to the curb, and I open the door for her, still unable to take my eyes from hers. Finally, I say, "I live at the American Gardens Building, 3578 -"

"I know Patrick," she says in an almost condescending tone, "I read your file." I close the door behind her and when I see the Asian taxi driver giving me a questioning look, I flip him off and say, "I don't ride with Chinks!" The driver pulls away from the sidewalk and starts down the street, yelling something in the gibberish he calls language.

It is 7:45 pm and I am supremely annoyed that Evangeline has not yet arrived and that I paid the maid to come in and spot clean my apartment, and have already put down newspaper to keep Stone's blood from staining my carpet. Two champagne flutes sit on the glass table near an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon, and I arrange and rearrange them in a triangle shape, then a right angle, then a triangle again. Just as I am about to call an escort service, there is a knock at the door, and my spine immediately straightens as I wonder how exactly she could have gotten in without asking me to buzz her up. I stiffly stand up from the couch and brush off my starched Armani suit, marching slowly towards the door. I turn the handle, and sure enough, she stands there, her hair in an attractive Madonna-esque perm, her body wrapped in a Chanel fox fur, and she extends a black gloved hand towards me, and I help her over the threshold. "You look simply stunning," I say, taking her coat and revealing a black Christian Dior dress which fits her body incredibly well. "Sorry to keep you waiting Patrick," she says with little apology in her voice, "but the traffic was just dreadful."

I make my way to the table and pour the Dom Perignon, observing her slim figure as it breezes its way through my apartment, attentively examining every corner and crevice of it, yet at the same time, apathetic and aloof. I hold the bottle by the neck in my right hand, contemplating hitting her with it and punishing her immediately for wasting my time, but she turns and looks at me with those eyes, and I put it down, closing the gap between us and handing her the other champagne flute. I gesture toward her necklace, which hangs around her neck like a small chandelier. "Harry Winston wreath. I don't believe they've made that design since the 60s," I say, and she sips her champagne simply, then says, "They haven't. I had it specially made." I pretend to be interested in her jewelry as I make my way to the kitchen, opening my special drawer below the sink, fingering the knives that reside there, and she dribbles on about Winston designs throughout the century as she thumbs through my CD collection, picking out one slim case and saying, "Huey Lewis and The News? Hmm...I must say, their first two albums were a little too New Wave-y for me. I'm not much of a fan."

I drop my knife and look at her sideways, my pulse beginning to race, and say, "Yes, but on this album, I think they really came into their own."

She chuckles. "Is that so? In that case, I'll have to give them a second chance. May I borrow?"

I stop and tense up, my eyes narrowing, then relaxing as I realize that Stone will be dead in a few moments. "Of course," I say with my charming grin, "as long as you return it, of course." I go to the closet in the hall and open it's sliding mirrored doors, and my hand finds a spool of twine, which I begin to undo slowly, until it is about a foot long, and Stone says from behind me, "Do you have any sorbet? I would love very much to cleanse my palate," and I clip the twine with a pair of wire cutters and wrap it around my fingers before I slowly begin to turn and say, "Yes of course. I have lemon and raspberry in the refri -"

My stomach drops as I see that Stone has already opened the refrigerator and is staring at it, her hand resting on the door. From behind her slender frame, I can see what is left of a woman's head on a plate, crudely wrapped in a clear plastic bag, her eyes staring glassily up at Evangeline. "Oh..." she says, her hand dropping to her side as she slowly reaches in to the second shelf, and I wrap the twine around my other hand quickly, my brow breaking out in a sweat, but as I move to her back, she turns around with the sorbet in her hand and says, "I don't believe there's enough here for the both of us. Did you want some as well?"

I stare down at the sorbet cup, which is clearly splattered with bright red blood, then back at her face, which is just as calm and serene as ever, her lips and eyes relaxed. "Well," she says expectingly, and opens the carton and peers inside, "maybe if I only had a bite or two..." and places the carton on the counter top, opening my special drawer and producing a spoon, which she dips inside the carton as she stares at the twine in my hands, and brings the spoon to her lips. "What exactly were you going to do with that? Strangle me?"

A split second goes by where I wonder if she is making a joke, if she even saw the severed head, but it is fleeting when I see her face, the humorless expression it holds, the way she doesn't appear frightened at all. "Honestly Patrick, you're not even wearing gloves. Modern forensics can lift a print from just about anything nowadays," she takes another bite of sorbet from the carton, then sets it down on the counter, "not to mention the DNA they can identify from a single strand of hair left on a body. Do you know how many pieces of hair you lose every day?" She steps even closer towards me, and my hands drop to my sides as I feel as though I am being cornered, and says, "No, obviously you don't, if you were silly enough to leave hair and suit fibers on Paul Allen's body." I drop the twine, although every instinct tells me to finish her, but my hands are too shaky, too sweaty to do much of anything, and I blink as the sweat from my brow drips into my eye. "Do you still have the jawbone Patrick? Is it in your sock drawer?" she asks, and I swallow, nodding weakly and gesturing towards the bedroom, managing an incomprehensible and mumbled "yes".

Her eyes dart toward the bedroom for a moment, then back to me as she presses into me. "You're wondering how I knew," she says, smiling brilliantly, "but I think I know a kindred spirit when I see one. You thought I was kidding when I said I murdered escorts, but I assure you, what I said was very, very real."

Suddenly my pulse begins to slow, and I expel a long burst of air, the atmosphere seeming less dense, less stifling. She was not afraid of me, in fact, in an odd way, she was me, and I feel the clouds before me lifting, my burden becoming less, my life becoming more bearable.

"Why don't you and I have a little supper," she begins, hurrying toward the hall closet and pulling out her fox fur, "and perhaps then, you can see just how serious I really am?" She smiles darkly at me, a favor which I return, and I say, "Let me get my coat."


	5. Chapter 5

**Tunnel Club**

After we have paid for dinner at the Quilted Giraffe, which was a very reasonable $400, Evangeline suggests that we go out, perhaps dancing, somewhere where people are lucid, stupid, willing to make bad decisions. I, in turn, suggest Tunnel Club, because it has turned into a den for whores and models who are desperate to be noticed and will go home with just about anyone. Also, nobody goes there anymore, so it is almost certain that we won't see anyone we know and therefore will not be identified later.

There is a line which extends down the street and around the corner, and Evangeline laughs when she sees it, removing a $100 bill from her sequined Gaultier clutch and handing it to the door man. She takes my hand in hers, and I can feel her pulse quickening, excited from the prospect of the hunt, and she leads me into the bathroom, pushing past everyone in line. Someone says "Fuck you!", but she hardly hears them, pushing a stall door open and pulling me inside. She opens her Gaultier clutch again and removes a small plastic bag which is lined from top to bottom with coke, then says, "Patrick, tell me you have a credit card." I take out my wallet and hand her my American Express card, and she scoffs at it, but in a way, it is not unkind. "You know no one takes this, right?" I nod at her, and note that normally, if a woman said that to me, I would want to kill her, but it is not so with Evangeline. She separates the lines of coke and leans down, and I watch with glee as she breathes in deeply and the powder disappears into her nostrils. She stands back up and watches as I repeat her movements, slowly, steadily, coldly.

We do two more lines each this way, and I realize that I haven't done this much coke in a long time, and I immediately feel powerful, invincible, ready for anything. As we leave the stall and make our way to the bar, I feel as if I am floating through space, and when I finally sit down, I don't remember how I got there.

At the end of the bar, there is a couple dancing, laughing, both incredibly drunk. Both Evangeline and I are staring, watching them sloppily kiss, watching them all but have sex on the bar. The woman in the couple is pretty, but not beautiful, a hard body with red hair and a long nose. She is wearing a blue Salvatore Ferragamo dress-blazer combo with Jimmy Choo shoes that both Evangeline and I have realized do not match, which angers us both. The man is considerably older than the woman, and is wearing a gray Hugo Boss suit and cheap Brooks Brothers shoes.

Evangeline looks at me and asks, "Have you ever done couples before?" Her eyes are blood red from the coke, and she blinks as though she has never blinked before.

I shrug my shoulders at her. "You mean sexually?"

She drums her blood-red nails on the bar and her eyes dart back and forth. "Well, no, but that gives me an idea." She smiles at me, so wide that I can almost see every one of her perfect teeth, and I can see the heaving of her breasts start to quicken. "I want to kill a couple. I want to fuck them, and then I want to kill them."

I smile, but it immediately fades when I digest exactly what she has said. "What if _they _don't _do _couples?"

She shrugs, hopping off the bar stool, "I don't know," she says. She walks to the end of the bar, and I follow her, and we stare at them for a few moments, and for a long time, they don't even notice us. Finally, she taps the man on the shoulder and they turn to face us.

"Excuse me," she says, "but my associate and I were just in the bathroom doing blow, and we were wondering if maybe you were interested in fucking us."

All three of us stare at her in disbelief for a moment, and I find myself deeply attracted to her fearlessness, feel myself harden at her suggestion.

They look at each other, visibly perturbed at her, and it makes me angry, fills me with such a blood lust that I consider killing them both right now, in front of God and everyone. However, when the woman starts giggling, I realize we are in luck. She whispers in his ear and he laughs as well, a most effeminate laugh, and I wonder for a moment if he is secretly a faggot. Evangeline has not moved since she stopped speaking.

Finally, the man says, "Ok. If you let us have some of your coke, we'll sleep with you and your...um, associate." They look at each other and laugh again, and I am instantly annoyed, and at the same time, incredibly overjoyed.

In the cab, Evangeline sits up front with the driver and leaves me to deal with Harvey and Grace, who, I have learned, deserve every bit of what they get. She insists that we go to her apartment, although I have explained to her that mine is already prepped and ready for blood shed. She takes us to a posh building on fifth avenue, one which I am genuinely impressed by, and then to a penthouse which overlooks most of the city, then tells us that this is only temporary, that she will be moving to a better apartment within the next month. Although I am jealous, I am also awed - awed not only by her incredible sense of style, but by the way she has tightly saran wrapped every inch of her apartment.

Harvey and Grace have already snorted their first two lines of coke and are starting the orgy without us. They mumble something about "not knowing where this associate is", but I assume that's the coke talking. Evangeline yells at them that she doesn't want them to do it on the couch, but they ignore her. They are incredibly annoying - Harvey informed me loudly and often that he is a TV producer for a tacky soap opera entitled _General Hospital, _and that Grace had recently auditioned for the role of a cadaver on the show. She was from the Mid-West, a doe-eyed, bushy-tailed idiot who was more than willing to suck a dick or two to get ahead. Evangeline watched them, her eyes narrowed, her lips curled in a sneer, and she gestures for me to follow her into the bedroom, telling the oblivious couple that we will soon be back with "toys".

Once in her bedroom, she unzips her dress and lets it fall to the floor, stepping out of it quickly, a look of glee spread across her face. As she unhooks her bra and steps out of her panties, she looks at me, gloriously naked, and asks, "What are you doing?" I say nothing, taking in the subtle, perfect curves of her body, her perky breasts and ass, the way everything is incredibly proportionate, as if someone carved her from marble, and she stares at me, exasperated. "You're not leaving suit fibers again. Take it off." I comply, and when I am also naked, she hands me an H2O shower cap, surgical mask and rubber cleaning gloves, telling me to put them on, doing the same herself, then opening her large, mirrored, walk in closet to reveal a stash of what she considered "toys" - an axe, a chainsaw, an assortment of serrated knives, a large spool of twine, a hack saw, a hammer, a bottle of bleach, Drano, a hand held blow torch. I feel myself get hard at the sight of the closet, and she asks me, "Weapon of choice?" She begins to reach for the axe, then says, "No, that's rude of me. You're the guest. You choose first."

I choose the nail gun, and when her cold, steely eyes meet mine, they are sparkling with excitement, and I know that mine are as well, and as she chooses the axe, I can feel the clouds in my vision lifting.

When we enter the living room again, Grace and Harvey are having sex on the floor. Both of them are completely engulfed in the action, eyes closed, heads tossed back, Grace faking some kind of mediocre orgasm. Evangeline looks at me over the top of her surgical mask, the axe resting in her right hand. She looks primal, animalistic even, her eyes ravenous and waiting for me to lead the way, for me to make the first move, but I shake my head at her. "Please," I say, "Ladies first."

I can see that she is smiling beneath her surgical mask, and without a second thought, she raises the axe over her head and brings it down on Harvey's leg, and the incision makes a rude _squashing _noise, blood spraying everywhere. He screams and tries to roll over, but the shock of the injury has made doing so impossible, and although his leg is still hanging halfway on, he does not attempt to save it, not even once. Evangeline raises the axe again and hacks away at his leg a second time, this time severing it from his body, and flecks of blood spatter her naked body. Grace has now noticed that his screams are not ones of pleasure, probably feeling the warm blood pool around her own legs, and has started screaming herself. She tries to push him off and stand up, but I am waiting for her, and push her over the back of the couch, and before I begin to strangle her, I see that Evangeline is about to swing the axe a third time, probably into Harvey's other leg. At this time I have nailed both of Grace's hands to the floor, and she has begun to cry when she realizes there will be no escape, and I aim the nail gun at the middle of her forehead and finish her as Evangeline swings the axe one last time into Harvey's face. As I see the life run from Grace's eyes, there is a silence in which only the panting of Evangeline and I can be heard, and I make my way around the couch to see what she has done. She crouches down and detaches Harvey's jaw bone, which was rudely hanging from his face by a single string of sinew and other vital tissue.

Studying it, she says, "We're twins Patrick. You and I are twins."

That night, she and I fuck on the floor in Harvey's blood, every single way.


End file.
